The Signifiance of a Flower
by sarapals with past50
Summary: GSR, of course! Our pre/sequel to "Forget Me Not". Events leading up to and after the episode-confusion, angst, conflicts but always a happy ending. Not a re-telling of episode, but spoilers, perhaps, for season 13. And a happy ending! GSR is alive in Fanfiction even if CSI writers can't figure out how it should continue!
1. Chapter 1

A/N_: We do not own CSI or its characters. Just 'making things right' after "Forget Me Not". Our story does not re-tell the episode, but sets the stage before, during and after. Enjoy! _

**Significance of a Flower**

_Forget Me Not, a low-growing wildflower with blue or white flowers, commonly regarded as a symbol of faithful love and consistency._

Chapter 1

The local bus chuffed slowly up a long winding highway leaving a trail of brown muddy sludge and gray smoke in its wake. The driver banged on the horn constantly—which sounded like a goose—squawking out a noise that was more comic than imposing. Before leaving the last town, the bus driver had 'fixed' the windshield wipers by using his shoe and now they moved back and forth but never touched the glass.

Gil Grissom had no idea how the man kept the bus on the narrow road. Most of the other passengers were sleeping or pretending to sleep. For a while he and his two fellow travelers had talked about the black scorpion they had seen at their hotel; the housekeeper had scooped it up and thrown it out a window, saying it was bad luck to kill a scorpion.

The bus continued its journey bumping along the half-paved road. The land they passed seemed almost mythical as distant mountains spread into valleys eroded into a vast and changeless earth. Occasionally, they passed a group of squat buildings usually grouped along a dirt cross-road but he had not seen signs of life in any of the houses for two hours.

Looking out the window, he thought, "This is the farthest I've ever been from home."

His journey had already taken ten days—from the time the jetliner had landed in Istanbul—getting the necessary work permits, gathering needed supplies before heading into a remote province—had kept his mind on other things. Not on what or who he had left behind. He wiped a hand across his face, pulled his hat down, and closed his eyes, but his thoughts kept him awake…

Although the arrangement had been a temporary one initially, Sara remained in Vegas. The position she filled became permanent, more by accident than design, just as Grissom became well-known with forensic archeologists. And as with Sara's work with the crime lab, one project followed another until Gilbert Grissom was one of the renowned experts in the field.

In the beginning, in Costa Rica, in Paris, in Las Vegas, they talked about a joint project; for a while, every few months, they would fill out reams of paper and send it to one of the grant organizations, but after two years with no funded project, Grissom was working with others—projects all over the world—and Sara had settled back into Vegas, her job, and was developing a tenuous relationship as daughter-in-law with his mother.

It was not a surprise to Grissom when Sara started talking about a larger place—a real house, a permanent home—a place for his work that had outgrown the small study in the condo.

"But what about our plans—our own grant, for us to work together?"

Sara insisted, "We need a base. A place to call home, to live when we aren't traveling. Your mother is here." She was calm, serene, and well-informed as she quietly convinced him—premium real estate was a bargain in Las Vegas.

Before the closing was completed on the new house, Sara had suddenly had to make a decision about her mother; failing health, the inability to take care of her own needs had manifested into an emergency trip to San Francisco which resulted in Laura Sidle moving to Vegas and being placed in a long-term care facility.

He knew the situation put an enormous burden on Sara; one that she would never admit; one that she refused to share with anyone. With her usual rebounding energy, she jumped full-force into moving into their new house, never admitting her worries or mentioning her mother to any of their friends.

Grissom stayed another month while they emptied one place and moved into a beautiful mid-century modern house; Sara knew his needs better than he did and arranged a convenient, well-planned office in one of the bedrooms. He had smiled with satisfaction as he watched her plan and arrange and find appropriate furnishings for the house which she quickly made into a home.

…The bus shuddered, grinding gears as the driver made a tight turn. The passengers seemed to moan in unison before falling quiet as the bus driver gained control of the vehicle to complete the turn.

Grissom never lifted his hat but let his mind play back to the beautiful day he and Sara had moved into their new home. She had made sure no one was around as they had made the bed with new sheets.

"I've been thinking of you on this bed all day!" Sara had said as she hooked her arms around his waist. All the weeks since that day, he could remember how warm her skin was, how smooth. And despite all the smells surrounding him on the bus, he could remember the secret, sexy scent of Sara as they made love.

When he left, heading to a remote area of Russia, he promised to call every day—both knowing it would be impossible—promising to return in six weeks; before leaving for the airport, he suggested they should meet in Paris. Sara agreed; she always agreed. She always waited—even when he was delayed, arriving in an airport as she was scheduled to depart.

After three such incidents, paying the inordinate price for changing her flight so they could have a few days together, they had argued.

"I think we need to re-evaluate this long-distance marriage," Sara said.

Grissom looked at her with unbelieving eyes, could not rationalize what he had heard. Icy fingers pricked his spine. He could not believe how calm she was as she sat drinking tea—and then she laughed.

"Oh, Gil, I mean for you to come home—one of us is in the air every two weeks or so. We're fighting jet lag and sleeping more than we talk! I've seen all of Paris, Rome, Frankfort, New York, and Atlanta airports I ever want to see!" She pushed a plate of French pastries near his plate. "Eat these—you aren't eating enough. You and I love each other—separation, living apart for a few more weeks isn't going to make me stop loving you—or you stop loving me!"

"You are probably right," he agreed. They were spending an excessive amount of money on airfare.

Together, they watched the sun break through the Parisian fog, coming back to the nearly deserted streets, causing pools of water left by street cleaners to dance with bright points of light. Sara pulled a petal from the flower on their table and traced a pathway along her husband's arm. She kissed his forehead in an attempt to erase the deep furrows between his eyebrows.

"We'll be fine, Gil." Her hand covered his and she met his mouth and kissed him as he smiled.

Somehow they ended up with a compromise. If a project took him away for six weeks, Sara would remain at home. If Grissom was to be gone for eight weeks, then they would meet at a mid-point city. This should have worked—except, too often, six weeks turned into eight or nine weeks and Grissom frequently added on "another week" before he returned to Vegas.

They talked every day—almost every day—when work, time zones, remote locations came together in the right order and they managed to find dozens of ways to continue loving each other; they used Skype, sent text messages, wrote real letters—it was an adventure thinking of ways to make the other smile. Grissom's favorite shared activity was what he named 'my daily panty update'.

But they made it work. And when they connected, when they were physically together, there was little need or reason to talk. They were happy, laughing, content; the world outside did not exist and the weeks apart faded into a pale memory.

And then, the invitation arrived—Turkey.

"We'll be digging up mass graves from the Dersim Rebellion! Trying to determine if it was ten thousand or seventy thousand people killed—trying to give an official estimate," he explained, excited as a five year old at Christmas, as he read the initial invitation. He had two weeks to prepare.

In Grissom's mind, this trip should be no different than any of the other projects he had worked on. Officially, he would be living in Turkey for a year, but they made plans to meet—Istanbul in the fall, Paris was a favorite for Christmas, Rome or Lisbon in the spring.

In a modern world of lightening fast internet connections, of instant messages, of satellite phones, of jets criss-crossing the sky, it was easy to stay connected—it should have been easy. Except it wasn't.

_A/N: We appreciate your reviews. And know this one will end happily._


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: _Thank you for reading another view of "Forget Me Not"!_

**The Significance of a Flower**

**Chapter 2**

Istanbul should have been perfect—a new city for both of them—spending hours walking in picturesque neighborhoods of wooden mansions, visiting historic and religious monuments, and seeing the beautiful frescoes and mosaics. But Grissom was stuck in the remote northeast corner of the country because of storms, a washed-out road, no trains running, sporadic bus service, and when Sara landed in Germany she got his delayed message—he could not get out—and she returned to Vegas the next day.

After the misfortune of Istanbul—they made no plans for Paris—he was out of touch with his wife more often than he wanted to admit. Not completely out of touch—she called every day and left a message, he called and left a message—but he realized they had not talked—really talked—when she left a message about their 'anniversary'. He had smiled, knowing the date she meant—and as soon as he got a few minutes, adjusting for time change—he would call her, have a real conversation about how she was, what he was doing.

But work got in the way. The area they were excavating was filled with bones, shoes, remnants of clothing, bits and pieces of humanity in mass graves. They were making progress when rain caused a mudslide; the group of men worked hours to dig out and recover all they could. When he did manage to send Sara a text message, he knew she would be working—no time or place for a long, intimate conversation. So he stuck his shovel and brushes into the soil, spent hours looking in a microscope, and more hours recording and cataloging what had been found.

During the days of monotonous digging and long nights of darkness, the group, all men, worked and talked about their own lives. Grissom realized he had never had many male friends. Jim Brass was the closest person he could claim as a guy friend—and they had never bowled together much less talked about wives—and now they saw each other a few times a year. He listened, but did not participate, as stories were told about wives or ex-wives; it made him lonely and he missed his wife.

Alone in his bed, listening to the wind, he missed Sara's presence more than ever. He checked his phone again, knowing there was no message, but kept it in his palm in case she called. He needed to talk to Sara, to hear about her days and nights, her worries and her happiness. He wanted to hear her voice; he wanted to see her. And most of all, he wanted to hold her. In the middle of the night his call went to her voice mail. In the middle of the day, the same thing.

Finally, Sara called. He actually crawled out of the trench and walked over to sit on a pile of rocks so he could talk with some privacy. Her voice was cheerless as she told him about her mother's condition, sad as she related the troubling cases of the crime lab, and when she answered his question with "I'm fine, Gil", he knew the truth. She had shared troubling events; she was working too much, but by the end of their conversation, she was laughing.

"Things will get better, Sara. Don't let it bother you. I promise I'll—I'll fly home for Christmas and New Years—we'll watch fireworks and celebrate. We've been apart too long."

Before he could say more, a clamoring noise rose from the trench. He stood up so he could see. "We'll talk, Sara. Make a reservation for dinner—I'll be home."

But he forgot all about his promise, forgot about Christmas, forgot to make travel plans, forgot about calling Sara for days, after one of the men's shovels had hit what appeared to be a wall—a well preserved canvas—that was quickly cleared away. Bodies—bones, clothing, shoes—were stacked six feet high. They started digging a shallow ditch across the field and found more remains; hundreds became thousands. They set up lights to work through the night; they took short breaks to sleep, ate whatever was in cans, and continued to uncover hundreds of bodies in the largest mass grave they had found.

Exhausted, nearly a week passed before Grissom opened his phone and remembered his promise. He had a dozen messages, each one sounding anxious, and each message progressively shorter than the previous one. Not even checking the time, he called.

"Let's meet in Paris," he suggested.

"You forgot to make reservations," Sara responded.

"I did—it just slipped my mind—we got so busy. It's the largest grave we've uncovered."

There was a pause as he heard the sounds of a computer search, then Sara said, "I think all of Europe is traveling that week." Another long pause and she continued, "I don't think I can do this, Gil. Flights are—are full-or layovers are horrendous," she groaned, "I'm not even sure you can get a flight out of Turkey." With her next words, he knew he heard tears in her voice. "Why does this have to be so difficult?"

He didn't know what to say so he repeated what he had said dozens of time, "You don't have to do this, Sara. You—you can—you know you don't have to work."

They did not argue much and when they did it was about the same thing—as if they specialized in one topic—and the phone call quickly slid into the nothingness of the same words they had spoken on previous occasions. They no longer knew who had arranged words in each sentence.

"My work is important."

"We should be applying for grants."

"If only…" The words said by one or the other, neither knowing exactly what "if only" meant.

"We've made our own little world, Gil. We need—I'm not sure what we need."

"I'll come for your birthday, honey. Get me a flight and I'll get to Istanbul—I'll be there. We'll celebrate." And then, Grissom said "I'm not a very good husband, Sara."

"You're the one I want."

They each remembered to say "I love you" before ending the call.

On Christmas day, they celebrated via Skype. And again on New Year's Day. But there was unhappiness in Sara's eyes. Nothing he said could make her laugh, not real laughter. He had remembered to send her a gift, a necklace, which she wore as they pretended to toast the new year with fingertips pressed to laptop screens. Her eyes were brighter than they had been on Christmas day, but her smile was strained in a way he had not seen for several years.

The next day, as Grissom dug in the soil of Tunceli Province, logic, that process of thoughts and arguments not influenced by emotions and impulses, began to work in Grissom's mind. As a scientist, he had often built decisions on specific events and situations and the inevitable consequences of their interactions. And in his deductive and inductive conflict with himself, he made a decision. He knew Sara; he knew women had special needs and different desires, especially at certain times and at certain ages. He had listened to Catherine Willows for years, half-listened anyway.

He had never been good at verbal communications—he knew it went back to his childhood with a hearing-impaired mother—so he wrote a letter in the form of an email but did not send it. Sara's messages, text, voicemails, emails, were filled with what was happening at work; she was frustrated, he knew. But there was a simmering animosity—not directed at him, but at someone, anyone, or anything—in her messages that he did not understand. And he had never been one to make a guess.

A week passed before they talked and then it was brief—as ships passing in a sea, Sara said.

"Sara, you need to get out, find something to do away from work. Enjoy yourself, honey. Don't wait for me to get home!"

He heard her sigh. "I'll wait for you, Gil. I don't want to 'get out' with someone else."

"Sara," he tried to sound calm, composed, "don't fall back into your old ways—you've grown beyond that. I—I don't know what to do about this."

"I'm fine, Gil. I'll be fine."

"Promise me you'll get out—Nick and Greg, one of the new girls—go out with someone." He hesitated for a long moment. "Sara, maybe it would be better—since I'm not there—you would be happier if…"

He heard her gasp for air and then in the silence that followed, he knew she was crying.

"Sara," he said, "Sara, talk to me. I don't mean—I don't mean—we'll talk when I come for your birthday. We'll come up with what's best."

Her voice was quiet; he could barely make out her words. "I don't want what's best, I want you, Gil."

"I love you, Sara."

"You know I'll always love you," she whispered.

Afterwards, Grissom sat at his computer and read the letter he had composed a week earlier. He had not used quotes from Shakespeare or Longfellow; he had used a very systematic, logical approach in addressing their long distance marriage.

A/N:_ Emails, text messages, voice mails-are they really talking! More to come! Thank you for reading and your reviews!_


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: _Another chapter! Keep reading..._

**The Significance of a Flower**

**Chapter 3**

Grissom did not give much thought to the actual passing of days because he concentrated on work, a dozen problems popped up in a day, hundreds of artifacts were found every day; and, once a week, sometimes it was longer, when he and Sara could arrange a time to talk, there was not much said. He told her about the excavations, of the monotonous food, the awful weather. Sara responded with the same—work, a bizarre crime, an update about their mothers. Neither asked questions, afraid of the answer or afraid of the recurring disagreement.

After one of these conversations, he retrieved the email he had written but had not sent. As he read his words, his thoughts flashed back to the day he had met Sara Sidle; so young as she asked her eager questions, her hair pulled back in a pony tail. He thought of her first year in Vegas—enthusiastic, jumping wholehearted into becoming part of his team. Then he thought of that day in Costa Rica when he surprised her and all that had followed.

He smiled. Since meeting Sara, he looked at life, even misfortunes and sorrows, with a subdued optimism. He knew without doubt that he would never love another person as he did Sara, that she would always love him. Yet, he thought, Sara needed more—more than he could give her—something or someone to make her happy. He remembered her happiness, her easy laughter on so many occasions. But with the logic of a scientist, knowing there was so much he could not change; he re-read his letter again before he pressed 'Send'. It was for the best…

Along with additional words and sentences he expected would convey his love and support, he had written:

_Each person is master of their own destiny… provide for themselves, live life to its fullest… Around me, I see the world as black and white, in right and wrong, in yes and no. You see the world in vivid color. …We understand each other, we trust each other… We have a partnership, a passionate love but you need something more—something I cannot give you at this time… I cannot change, nor would I want to change you…Know you are the one I love…the best for you…know you are free to find happiness…_

He checked his watch, calculated time differences, and realized Sara should be getting ready for work. He rolled over, thinking about sleep, the work that waited in the field. They were making progress, he thought. In his mind, he began making a checklist of what had to be done and finally fell into a deep sleep.

He had no way of knowing the repercussions of his letter; hours later, Sara responded with a brief email. He did not understand what she meant with her question: "What does this mean?"—and, not for the first time, it crossed his mind that he was in love with a woman he did not fully understand.

A few minutes later, the researcher leading the project let out a whooping yell. "All heads up! The government is coming—inspectors will be here in a week! This is it, guys!"

For five days, the men worked relentlessly—they knew what they had discovered, documented, catalogued, photographed, and now they would present it to the officials who were paying for the project. Grissom went to work; he had finally learned how to organize paperwork for government officials.

The visiting officials arrived in three brightly painted helicopters, French origin, Grissom thought, as the machines settled into a rising dust cloud. By the time the group left, everyone was pleased with the responses and reactions of the government bureaucrats and once the helicopters lifted off the ground late in the afternoon, the men returned to the building to finish off tea and coffee and platters of sweets left on the table. Someone added a celebratory bottle of bourbon to the table and for the first time in weeks, the men relaxed in a well-deserved break.

It was in the midst of their celebration that Grissom remembered the date—Sara's birthday—he had already sent a message telling her he would not be with her for her birthday. He threw up a hand when someone called him back to the table and quickly finished his short message, knowing she would be disappointed, probably frustrated and irritated with him. In a few months, this project would be finished and he would find a way to make it up to her.

When nightfall came, Grissom was able to sleep soundly, a result of extreme weariness and the unusual consumption of alcohol. But he woke early, confused by a thick headache before remembering the bourbon and the vodka and the local liquor they had drank. He got up, found a couple of aspirin and a bottle of juice, checked his phone and found no messages.

He noticed the cold then; the wind groaned against the windows and slithered into the room making him even colder. He pulled a sweat shirt on and looked out the window at the heavy frost; not for the first time, he felt regret—he should have gone to Vegas for Sara's birthday—the project would have continued without him; the government inspectors had been satisfied but he was the only one who knew some of the critical information. This had turned into a much bigger task than any of the men had envisioned—a project for twenty instead of eight.

He pulled his socks on and went into the kitchen; the men prepared breakfast each morning—eggs, black bread, salted cereal, and coffee. Later, two village women would arrive to prepare a mid-day meal and do some general housekeeping. As he heated water, he clicked his email and found nothing.

Odd, he thought, that he had not heard from Sara—but perhaps she had celebrated her birthday with others—he should have contacted Nick, Greg, and Jim but he had not wanted to hear the taunting teasing or the subtle disapproval in Jim's voice.

He went back to preparing breakfast, cracking a dozen eggs into a bowl, sprinkling cereal into the pan of boiling water, and pouring a cup of coffee before others showed up.

The weather cleared; the sky appeared glassy blue, and the frost fronds across the windows disappeared. The group moved slowly this morning, their brains still fogged from the celebration the night before. Grissom tossed his cell phone on his bed as he pulled on his coat and hat. For a few minutes his attention was directed to the conversation in the hallway as the men talked about what they would do today and, as he joined them, he left his phone on the bed.

Hours later, in mid-afternoon, when Grissom returned to the house, he picked up his phone and, again, was surprised to find no messages or missed calls from Sara. He started to text and then stopped, instead holding him fingertip above the number to call; he knew she would be working and knew she would not answer his call if someone was near her. Instead, he sent a short email, and went back out to work.

All afternoon and into the night, his phone remained silent. He wasn't concerned—he knew how Sara's work could extend into another shift—but he was curious so he logged on to the local Vegas news and found nothing out-of-the-ordinary—a robbery, several fatalities in a car crash, a man killed in a hotel, a murder-suicide but nothing indicating over-time for CSIs. Or nothing unusual, he thought, but with Vegas, nothing was ever usual.

"You know she's angry you didn't make it back for her birthday," one of the men said with a chuckle.

Grissom gave a half-hearted smile. "Probably so—but she doesn't stay angry long. I just hope she celebrated with friends."

Another twenty-four hours passed before Grissom heard of the events surrounding Sara's birthday…

Answering as soon as he saw the name on his phone, Jim Brass' voice boomed into Grissom's ear, "Where are you, Gil? Why aren't you here?" and without pausing for an answer, asked, "Why is Sara saying you are not her husband?"

Grissom sat down; his mouth opened and closed without a sound.

Jim's voice, brutally coarse, continued, "This girl has been through hell—hell and back—and your ass is in Timbuktu, Turkey-off-the-grid. She needs you here—now, Gil."

Finally, words formed and spilled out of his mouth. "What? I don't know, Jim—I missed her birthday. I know she's probably upset—we've been going through a rough patch—it's the distance. I—I didn't get back for Christmas. Then I missed her birthday! I know—I know she's been stressed—unhappy. But she's been okay…"

"You don't know about the stalker?"

Brass' words sent an icy dagger into Grissom's chest; terror he had not imagined clutched his heart. "A stalker—Sara?" he whispered.

"That's not all of it—you need to get back here," and Brass proceeded to give details of the death of a man in a hotel room to the altercation of another in the parking garage and the crucial confrontation in the stalker's house. "She needs you here—now—not in a month."

Grissom heard Jim Brass cough in a way meant to fill a gap in conversation before something more was added. Quickly, he asked, "Is Sara okay? Is—is she okay?"

At his question, Jim exploded into the phone; his voice was a whisper and a shout at the same time. "Hell, no, Gil! She is not okay! She needs her husband here with her! She needs you!"

Grissom heard an intake of air and a 'whoosh' as Brass breathed out before saying, "Nick came over—he—remember when he had a stalker? I'm staying with her so she'll sleep. I think she is much worse than any of us even imagined-pretty shook up about all of this—wouldn't talk to us, she was going to work—putting on a good front. Things really came to a head on her birthday—it's all been—been traumatic. We—Sara is okay—you know how she is. But you need to get home." His voice had calmed, "She needs you, Gil. She didn't want anyone to call you—but since when do I listen to anyone?"

"I'm coming—I'll be there as soon as I can," Grissom said. "Jim, thanks—she—she would never tell me but I knew something was wrong." Quietly, he added, "I did write her a letter—I thought—I thought it would help."

"It did not."

"Don't tell her I'm coming—but I'll call you when I get close—maybe into LAX."

"Make it soon."

"I will—and thanks, Jim. I—I am not very good at this."

Jim Brass could not keep his chuckle of laughter quiet. "I know, Gil. But you don't want to lose this. Get home, stay awhile. Treat Sara like—like she's a special woman." Some things had not been said; best left for a private conversation between a man and a woman, a husband and wife, Jim decided.

"She is."

The two men said goodbye; in Vegas, Jim Brass shook his head and went back into Sara's house.

Grissom sat quietly for several minutes and then turned to his computer before going to his room and pulling out his bag. He was going to Sara and maybe—no, definitely, he would make this right. He had been a fool on more than one occasion—he would not think about that now—he'd have to find a way to Istanbul that was faster than the local bus.

He crammed clothes into his bag and walked outside. A small group of denuded trees, branches splayed like skeletal hands toward the sky, stood as the only break in the exposed landscape. A deep trench ran for five hundred yards with dozens of shallow ditches cut in circling mazes. He would not be here to see the end result, to witness the closing moments of an historical event; he had a more important undertaking to put right.

A/N: _Thank you for reading, and for reviewing. _

_And more of this story to come...from another view point! Thank you!_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: We left Grissom trying to get home..._

**The Significance of a Flower **

**Chapter 4**

Jim Brass knew about personal problems, those that did not go away with eight hours of sleep, those that could not be drowned in a bottle; problems that grayed the edges of one's perception of every waking moment. The minute he heard about Sara, he knew—not the details—but damage that could—would—be permanent. He knew how one's mind could be tied in knots with "if" and "why"—when there was no logical answer.

He arrived a few minutes after Nick and Sara had left the lab; Greg supplied details. After hearing the bizarre circumstances of the case, he pointedly walked through the lab and spoke to several people—known gossips who would spread and retell any bit of rumor they heard. They understood his stern warning—the case was closed and no word should ever reach his ears of certain aspects of the circumstances. When David Hodges opened his mouth, Brass held up a finger, said a few more words, and Hodges nodded; understanding and acknowledging his cooperation.

By the time he left the lab, Jim was certain his reputation as an old curmudgeon had jumped a few notches, enough to quiet any spreading rumors about Sara. He did not want to admit to the soft-spot he had for her—his feelings were more as a father than he could acknowledge—knowing Sara had lost her parents as a child, knowing his daughter had been lost to him. And he knew she loved Gil Grissom for years before the man ever admitted how he felt about her—she had never had an easy life; when she returned to the lab, he had hoped for the best, but he also knew Grissom.

Quickly, Jim drove a well-known route and arrived minutes after Nick had opened the door to Sara's house. He watched as the two hesitated at the door; Sara was talking.

Getting out of his car, he plastered a smile on his face and walked to them.

"Hey," he announced, "I'm here to stay." He knew there was no way Sara would agree to a request, so he made it a pleasant demand. His arm went around Sara's shoulders. "Let's go in—we've got work to do—and some talking."

Nick raised his eyebrows in a quick surprise before he smiled; Sara was puzzled, but she turned and let him hug her as he whispered, "Everything's going to be all right, Sara. We are going to set things right." And he almost dragged her into the house.

He had no idea what Nick had planned—he knew Sara was still in denial, not yet believing all she had been through in the preceding hours. And at some point she would suffer the peculiar shock of a person who suddenly understands how much danger she had been in for some time—without realizing it—with the added trauma of whatever was going on—what had gone on—between her and Grissom.

Nick followed as Jim and Sara walked through the house; Jim explaining what he was going to do. "I'm going to fix something to eat. Don't look so surprised—I can cook! Sara, you are going to eat. Nick, here's what you need to do." He found paper and scratched out a list, giving it to Nick and sending him back to his car.

Alone with Sara, Jim poured two glasses of wine and placed one in Sara's hand. "Now, while I prepare something—you've got eggs and cheese and some veggies—how about an omelet?" He didn't wait for an answer as he continued, "Tell me about this—all of it." He removed his tie and coat, rolled up his sleeves and gathered what he needed as he told her what he had heard.

He had cracked four eggs before Sara begin to talk—about Basderic, getting involved on a personal level with this deranged man, knowing in hind-sight she had not been professional—had been very foolish; of meeting an attractive stranger in a bar and "all of that stupidity" as she described the two occasions when she met Taylor Wynard. She did not mention her husband.

"But I never thought—not once did I think—he would come after me." She threw an arm out and waved, indicating the entire house, "in my house, Jim! He got into my house, my things—I—I—don't know if I can sleep here again!" Tears overflowed her eyes; she reached for a paper towel.

Jim continued chopping peppers and a handful of mushrooms. He could ignore the elephant in the room for now. "This is your house, Sara. You are going to sleep here. We are going to clean it, laundry everything—and you are going to sleep. You can't let this thing destroy your life, your home." He poured eggs into a pan and then reached into a back pocket. "Use this, dear," he passed her a large white handkerchief. "It won't chap your nose." He smiled as he tilted the omelet and added the vegetables. "You are going to be okay, Sara. We can't let the bad guys win—you and Gil have a beautiful home. It's going to be beautiful again."

Gently, he slid the omelet onto a plate, took Sara's elbow and guided her to the table. "Eat." Tenderly, he placed his hand on her shoulder. "We're going to take care of this. Greg is checking your security system—getting a print-out of every time someone has accessed your house, changing your code. Nick and I—he doesn't know this—but we're going to help you clean up. Get things sorted out so this is your house again."

Sara picked up a fork and put food in her mouth, nodding in agreement.

Jim patted her arm and folded his hands together on the table. "At some point, we—you and I—are going to talk about Gil."

"I don't want him to know." Tears filled her eyes again.

"Eat. You are going to tell me why he's not your husband."

She attempted a watery smile but the corners of her mouth never turned upward. "I'm so angry—I was so angry, Jim. He hasn't been home in months. We haven't seen each other in months. We barely talk when we do connect on the phone. It—it has not been easy." She put down her fork and folded her hand against her face. Her fingers wiped tears away. "It's my fault—if I was the right kind of wife, he'd stay at home—or at least come home. Then he emailed me a—a 'Dear John' letter only I guess it was a 'Dear Jane' letter. It's all confusing, complicated." She tried to laugh but it came out as a heartbreaking sob. "I can only imagine what he's going to think when he hears about all of this."

"Sara, when he comes home, you'll find a way to tell him. But right now—when Nick returns, we're going to wipe every trace of Basderic out of your house."

She nodded. Brass wasn't sure if she agreed or didn't know what else to say.

He continued, "I'm going to stay with you for a while—make sure you sleep."

"No, no, Jim. You don't have to do that—I'll be fine." She protested, but he decided it was half-hearted and wasn't really an objection.

They heard Nick at the door. "Oh, look who's back," Jim got up, patted Sara's back, and said, "I'm staying with you. Indulge an old guy."

Sara pushed eggs around her plate; Nick unpacked cleaning supplies and said, "You know he did the same for me—I don't think I would have been able to stay in my house if Jim had not helped me."

Sara looked surprised and then she smiled. "You old softy," she said as she got up and hugged Jim. "Okay—you win."

Jim's phone chirped; the conversation was mostly one-sided until he said "Thanks, Greg. Sara deserves some good news." He hung up the phone and repeated: "The security records indicate someone entered your house twice—both times when you were working—the first time was two weeks ago for twenty minutes. The second time was less than three minutes. You are a creature of habit, Sara," he said with a sober smile. "You consistently leave the house at the same time; most days you return within thirty minutes of the same time. There were only two times that were out of your routine."

Sara sighed, sniffed and wiped her nose before she finished her omelet.

"The second news—the photographs of you with Wynard were photo-shopped—it was not you in a lip-lock with the guy."

"But—but—Jim, I know we were in the parking lot. He was—was all over me," she said, confusion showing on her face.

"He may have but your face was added later." He chuckled, "Greg has turned out to be okay—I wouldn't know a pixel from a pyxie."

Sara smiled, "What's a pyxie?" She asked as she stood and took her plate to the kitchen, opened the dishwasher, and placed her empty plate inside.

Nick and Jim followed her into the kitchen. Jim said, "It's a plant."

She opened a cabinet and removed everything from it, adding dishes, cups, glasses to be washed as the two men watched. As she closed the dishwasher door, she leaned against the cabinet. "Thank you," she said, "thank you."

Sara provided aprons and gloves and the two men cleaned. Without giving any specific instructions, the three worked together—the two bathrooms were sprayed with bleach and wiped down, furniture was polished, floors were mopped and vacuumed. Anything washable was washed and dried. In reality, nothing needed cleaning because the house was nearly spotlessly clean, but Nick knew from personal experience, Jim knew from years of encounters with victims; they were removing the physical traces of the stalker's touch.

With a hand signal from Jim, Nick understood and left the framed photographs for Sara to wipe down. He cleaned the glass door and walls. Jim sat down at the piano and started picking out a tune which turned into several jingles before he played a song—one that Sara remembered.

"I loved that song when I was thirteen or fourteen!" She actually laughed as Nick turned and performed a little dance step. In an instant, her laughter turned to tears.

Jim stopped playing, got up and hugged her. "We'll finish up. Take a long, hot shower." He gently guided her into the bedroom and the bathroom. "I'll send Nick home and be on the sofa."

Tears were still forming in Sara's eyes, spilling onto her cheeks. Affectionately, he took her face between his hands. "Everything is going to be okay, honey." For several minutes, the two stayed together as she cried.

A few minutes later, he watched Nick drive away. He had no idea what time it was in another part of the world—Turkey, especially—and didn't care. He scrolled through his phone contacts until he found the one for 'Gil Grissom'. Sara would be in the shower for a while—a good cry, hair shampooed, whatever else women did in the shower—and it should give him at least fifteen minutes to say what needed to be said. He stepped into the plant-filled atrium and pressed a finger on the number.

_A/N: One or two more chapters in this story...thanks for reading, thank you for reviewing! And if we have not heard from you, please leave a comment! We enjoy hearing from readers!_


	5. Chapter 5

**The Significance of a Flower**

**Chapter 5**

Sara actually managed to sleep without the aid of a pill; partly because of the warm liquid concoction Jim had given her, she thought as she stretched in bed. She knew he was in her house from the comforting smell of coffee. A few minutes later, she was drinking a steaming cup he had poured for her and eating a bagel he had toasted. He looked as he always did—pressed shirt, dark pants, a tie—and for the first time, Sara wondered how he managed to always look the same for as long as she had known him.

He sat beside her, saying "You can take a few days off—no one will…"

She said, "No, I made my decision—told D.B. I'd be in." She shrugged her shoulders. "Where else would I be, Jim?"

She made it through the shift—quietly with no more than the slightest mention of the events surrounding Basderic and the murder of Taylor Wynard. As she was leaving, Jim called her as she walked out of the lab.

"I'm fine, Jim," she said, "I really am fine."

She heard his soft chuckle. "I know you are, but I'm still going to meet you at home."

"I need to stop at the grocery store."

Another chuckle as he answered, "That's perfect. I'll wait for you at the house."

With her short shopping trip, Sara actually missed the arrival of her husband who was in the car with Brass when she had talked to him. The two men had talked several times as Grissom made his way through airports and home. During the drive, there was no chastising or expressions of regrets—all that had been said was in the past—and the two men talked of other things—general health, Vegas weather, construction projects. At the house, Jim opened the door using the new security code and helped with luggage; it took both of them to carry in a large arrangement of plants and flowers.

"You think this is going to make things right?"

Grissom looked miserable; he needed a shower and several hours of sleep. "I don't know—maybe it will help."

"Sara should be home soon. I'll meet her outside and you two can—can talk things over," Jim said. "Glad you are back—stay awhile. Make things right with your wife." He chuckled. "Maybe one day she'll thank me."

By the time Sara drove into the driveway, Jim was standing beside his car.

"You should have gone in," Sara said as he approached her car.

"I did," he shook his head. "Got to leave, Sara." He held up his phone and asked, "Will you be okay?"

"Sure—I've got food for later—and better breakfast food."

He nodded toward the house. "There's something inside for you." With a wave, he was heading toward his car. If things worked out, he thought, he would not be eating any of Sara's vegetarian food later.

When Sara entered the house, she immediately noticed the flower arrangement that almost covered the table—not a cut flower bouquet but a long rectangle planter filled with different plants—at least a dozen red tulips, masses of small red roses growing from several miniature bushes, a carpet of tiny blue flowers with a bright yellow center cascading around the red flowers, vivid green ivy trailing over the edge of the box and several small rosemary plants.

She turned to see if she could catch Jim, expecting him to be standing at the door, but he was gone.

"How beautiful," she said to herself, "and thoughtful."

Turning back to the flowers, she brushed her hand across the rosemary and its fragrance hit her nose—reminding her of the beautiful Italian farmhouse where she and Grissom had spent a week. Puzzled when her fingers touched silky fabric, she leaned for a closer look and found a yellow ribbon swirled among the plants. She pulled it out and discovered a descriptive message in an old-fashioned script_—'red roses and red tulips for true love', 'ivy and rosemary for fidelity', 'forget-me-nots for faithful love'_, and as she let the ribbon slip through her fingers, the last phrase, printed in smaller letters, was one she faintly recognized as she read: _'She had no need to ask why he had come. She knew as certainly as if he had told her that he was here to be where she was.'_

Immediately, as she read the last sentence again, she knew Jim Brass had not purchased these plants. Her fingers pulled the ribbon across her palm; the words blurred as her eyes filled with tears. A movement at the periphery of her vision caused her to look up.

"Gil," she whispered.

Her husband—fingertips pressed together, barefooted, wearing an old pair of pants and a soft blue tee-shirt was standing across the room. His hair was longer than usual, still damp from a recent shower. Her hand went to her mouth in surprise.

She heard him say, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

For a few seconds, she thought her eyes and ears were playing a cruel trick—how shapes and shadows shift into a dream vision. But he looked the same—she knew every line of his body, every curl on his disheveled head, the faint scar on his jaw, the features she loved so well.

He stood still for a few seconds. Sara thought his lips trembled before settling into a thin, hesitant smile but for a moment his face was unguarded and she recognized—for a few seconds—she recognized apprehension, a fear of something.

He held out his hand, palm up. "I'm so sorry," he said again. "It's not too late to make this right." His sentence ended as a question.

She couldn't move; her feet seemed bound in wet concrete. The room was spinning violently yet her husband remained stable, unwavering, waiting. And then her feet moved...

Grissom had called ahead for the plants—describing what he wanted—and the florist had delivered over and beyond his expectations; he had enough time to add the last quote and to take a shower before he heard Sara arrive.

Now she stood before him, chin trembling, her hands shaking as she held the yellow ribbon. Then he heard a sound, a gasp as she looked up, and in a stumbling rush, they met. Her body pressed against his, her palms pressed against his back, his nose taking in the subtle fragrance of her hair and skin. His ears captured the soft whispering of his name.

Sara's voice, soft and edged with emotion, "I'm sorry, Gil. Please—you know—do you know?"

Grissom, who had waited so long, traveled so far, who wanted desperately for forgiveness for his own selfishness, did not have to think or know more. He said, "I'm the one who has been stupid—foolish—chasing the wind. I'm here—we are together. That's all that matters."

After a while, once each was assured the other was whole and physically well and not part of a dream, they parted; he followed her into the kitchen where their hands touched, tentatively, shyly. When Sara went back to the living room where she retrieved her shopping bags and the yellow ribbon, Grissom followed; neither said a word. Sara glanced at him as she held the ribbon and suddenly, as their eyes met, everything was warmer between them; Sara felt anchored, in a way she had not felt in months.

"The flowers are beautiful," she whispered. When Grissom took her hand, she asked, "Would you like something to drink? Wine?" And without waiting for his reply, she walked back into the kitchen. He followed. Nervously, she said, "Jim and Nick helped me clean everything—I—I—the security code was changed." She took a minute to remove the cork and pour wine. "I'm sorry—I—I—I didn't send you the code."

He moved closer, saying "Sara—I don't know what to do—but I know I want to be married to you—I should be with you, not chasing something on the other side of the world."

Reaching out, he took her hand and squeezed her fingers. For a second, there was confusion between them, and then, almost unaware of what she was doing, Sara stepped forward, colliding with his chest. Her face pressed into his shoulder, fingers latching onto the fabric.

Grissom did not know if he had breathed in three minutes; his mind was filled with the scent and the feel of Sara pressed against his chest. He felt her fingers bunched into the fabric of his shirt; her hair tickled his face. And her scent—warm sun, spring flowers, a faint citrus fragrance—sent a mass of recollections into his brain, of fields of flowers, of picnics on a sunny day, of carefree afternoons, and warm sultry nights.

His arms circled her as he said, "Sara, I'll always love you." His voice was low; he leaned forward and caught her lips.

Her lips moved across his, like the brush of a butterfly's wing. He gathered her against him as he deepened the kiss and found a sweetness he had forgotten, that he remembered only in dreams. The pressure of Sara's kiss was stronger, more confident; his mouth opened to her and her tongue fluttered inside.

His fingers stroked her back, comforting, reassuring. He breathed against her ear, soft and warm. His tongue darted out and flicked against her skin. She tilted her head to one side, exposing her neck so his tongue could explore, trailing lower to the tiny pulse near its base. At some point, he tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear and nibbled on her lobe. Her back arched as frissons shuddered through her body.

The feeling of Sara's warm body pressed against his brought a rush of memories; he moved his hands to her butt and side-stepped, urging her toward the bedroom. The movement broke the spell. Sara pulled away.

"I—I know you are hungry," she said. "I have pasta salad, bread—an apple pie. I—I got enough for Jim to eat."

"Don't—Sara—we should talk."

She shook her head. "I can't, Gil. I can't. If you knew everything—I know Jim called you about—about Basderic—he did not tell you everything." Her eyes filled with tears and she looked away. "If you knew everything, you would not have come home."

"Sara," his voice pleaded, quietly. He pulled her back into his arms; willingly, she came. He held her as she cried, intensely, for so long that he felt the dampness from her tears soak through his shirt at his shoulder.

He pushed his fingers through her hair, held her head, and kissed her, finally saying, "Why don't you shower—I'll put out food and we'll—we will eat." He kissed her again. "I know you love me, Sara. I—I'm sorry I haven't been here." He paused and attempted a laugh. "I'm very sorry I sent you that email—I regret that—it was—it wasn't the right thing to do."

When she did not respond, he continued, "Whatever it is—whatever it is I don't know, you can tell me later. Not now, not while we eat. Not before we sleep." He took her by her shoulders and said, "Take a shower. Both of us should eat and I know I would love to sleep—with you."

She sniffed a wet nose and inhaled deeply between quiet sobs until she agreed to a shower. He walked with her to the bathroom, almost afraid to leave her alone; knowing his physical need must wait.

Sara did not take a long shower and was back in the kitchen in ten minutes. Grissom had plated pasta salad, bread, and cut up oranges and poured wine into glasses by the time Sara returned.

Smiling, he said, "You are wearing my house shoes." He handed her a glass of wine and waved a hand toward the dining table. "We eat—and we can talk about—about—you pick the topic."

Sara sat down, managed a smile, and said, "Tell me about your flight—flights. How—how long did it take?"

Grissom sat next to her. "First—why are you wearing my house shoes?" He laughed as she poked a shoe-clad foot against his bare one.

"You left them—took those old sandals—so I've been wearing them since you left." She smiled; her eyes glistened with small sparks of gold.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For remembering—for keeping my shoes warm." He smiled and lifted a fork filled with pasta salad to her mouth. "Eat—and then we'll sleep. I feel like I've been on a plane for twenty-four hours." He chuckled. "I have been on a plane for twenty-something hours."

Sara ate as he provided a narration of his trip—adding exaggerated details of small events to make her laugh—and when he rested a light hand on her shoulder, she leaned her head to rest atop his hand. Then, suddenly, she rose from the chair and placed her arms around him.

"Thank you, Gil. Thank you for coming home."

He stood, turning within her arms to hug her, carefully.

She led him into the bedroom and without saying a word, folded back the bedcovers, plumped pillows, and indicated he was to get into bed. Removing her robe and his shoes, she crawled in beside him, snuggled against his shoulder, and wrapped an arm around his chest.

They talked quietly, generally, about nothing important, for a while; he told her he loved her, she said she loved him. Grissom could feel some of the tension had left her body. Both knew there was more to say, but sleep came at last, a peaceful pause, a restful respite, because, even if they had been sleeping apart for months, they both slept better together than either did alone.

_A/N: Did you expect an immediate bed-scene? We decided 'probably not'-more to come in the last chapter for this story. Thank you for reading; a special thank you for those who review! _


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: With some sadness on our part: The last chapter of our 'follow-up' to "Forget Me Not"-and a happy ending as promised. There is one sad event that appears...sorry about that, but answers a question some had. Enjoy! As always, reviews appreciated._

**The Significance of a Flower**

**Chapter 6**

After the long months away from home, his real home, not some borrowed cot, Grissom woke in a kind of heaven. His face was against a soft pillow, his arm a little numb from the way he had slept. He was in heaven, he decided, because it smelled exactly the way heaven, or his heaven, should smell: the fragrance of Sara—a light citrus scent left where she had slept. He could, he thought, detect Sara herself, so he lay there, suspended in a perfect bliss, his eyes closed until he felt himself slipping back into sleep and forced his eyes open.

As he struggled to sit up, he had no idea how long he had been asleep. Returning from the dead, he thought, after all those nights on a narrow bed, the long hours of the flight home, the awkwardness between him and Sara. This bed with its soft, clean bedding, with Sara sleeping next to him, made him realize how much he missed this—home. He needed to make some changes, he decided, as he got out of bed, stretched, and walked to the wide windows in the bedroom.

He found Sara, sitting in the small garden—he could not see her face—with her phone in her hand. She still wore her robe; one he had given her a year ago, he remembered. She said a few words into the phone and then leaned over to pull some wayward weed from the soil before ending the conversation and placing the phone beside her. She was not aware that he watched her for several minutes as she pulled a few weeds and collected them in a heap. Then it hit him—this was where she had placed Hank's ashes—last year, while he was away, their beloved dog had succumbed to a fast growing brain tumor. They had talked about getting another dog but like so many plans, he had another trip on his calendar and getting another pet dropped off his agenda.

A few minutes later, he joined her and for a long time they did not say anything.

When he sat down in the chair across from her, she looked at him as she leaned back in the chair. There was softness around her eyes, a slight smile formed on her lips. At first he thought she wanted him to speak but as the wind blew her hair across her face, the light shifted and he began to understand that he had misread her. This stillness, the silence was not simply her decision to wait for him to speak—what he saw in her eyes was precisely what was in his own.

He had loved her for so long—she had known she loved him for much longer but he had decided it worked that way—women always knew, men never did. Just for an instant, he was clairvoyant; he knew she had been with another man—not an affair, but an encounter in the wrong way, in the wrong place. As certainly as he knew that, he also knew nothing had happened—nothing that mattered.

Gently, he smiled. Leaning nearer her face, so close he could see that her lips were dry, he spoke so softly he could barely hear himself. "Whatever happened is behind us, Sara."

She pressed her lips together and nodded.

"There isn't anything we have to do or say," he said.

For a second, he thought tears were forming in her eyes but she swallowed, blinked her eyes slowly, and looked away before turning back to look at him. Her face changed, slowly, gracefully, until he was confronted by the most curious look—and he knew everything between them was going to be okay—better than okay.

Sara's hand took his and just as softly, she asked, "No?"

In the following hours, he had never in his life been the lover he was with her.

Sara felt his hand on her shoulder as they walked into the house; his hands laced into her hair sent a flush of sensation spreading through her. He bent to kiss her neck, and then placed a necklace of kisses that barely brushed her skin along the base of her neck. Somehow, neither would remember the process, they undressed and suddenly the need for each other was overpowering everything else.

The deep arching motions of Sara's pelvis communicated her need, her urgency. She knew he tried to go slowly, to prolong their pleasure, but her body refused to allow it. Her body insisted and it seemed to her that her body became a wet pool, sucking him in, thrusting, stroking, as a smooth tongue of rapture licked through her when he came. She felt the strong absorbing spasms of her body continue to suck him, as if she could pull from him the very spark of life.

Grissom caressed her body with his hands, his fingers, his lips and tongue. He kissed her body all over and when Sara tried to move, he held her and followed with his quick tongue. Fingers brushed over the soft, dark triangle between her thighs. Lightly, so very lightly, stroking, exploring, tenderly seeking and finding what he sought. When he kissed the soft bud, felt her hands in his hair, he felt a great shuddering sensation that seemed to whisper from her toes to the crown of her head.

It was only the beginning. When their lips met, her orgasm was building; he slipped inside her with one lovely, smooth stroke, reaching and reaching. His hands locked on her butt as rhythm built.

His mind lost all thought except for dazed pleasure as his whole being swelled inside her glowing body; warm skin stroked his naked body.

Sexually drugged, exhaustion finally ceased their love-making but Grissom continued to touch her and seeing the male pleasure in his eyes, Sara did not reach for the bedcovers, but lay naked beside him. His fingers were rough but the scratchy feel against her skin heightened her sensitivity. Sara closed her eyes.

"No, no, open your eyes, dear."

She was powerless to deny any request. Her eyes met his.

One arm wrapped around her so his hand fondled her breast where it rose from her chest, the other slid down to cup her again. All she could feel was heat—moist heat—as his fingers grazed her. Gently at first, gradually increasing pressure, as every single nerve ending sizzled inside her. In seconds, she felt as if she was about to burst into flames; she must have made some noise because her husband smiled and kissed her, very slowly, running his tongue across her bottom lip, and then, when she opened her mouth, his tongue found her teeth. Then he slipped two fingers inside her, keeping his thumb on the most sensitive spot.

She came—again—so intensely that consciousness dimmed, aware only of a hot, rolling flame searing through her body. When she returned to awareness, she felt his hand was still on her, light pressure and movement sent reverberations through her. And her husband was smiling; his eyes sparkled like blue flames.

His hand moved back to her breast. "Perfect," he said as his fingers circled with one nipple. "Just perfect." His mouth closed on the other.

Eventually, they made love again; he was still inside her, from behind, holding her tightly against his chest. His mouth was on her neck as he inhaled her, tasted her. He could barely see straight, his eyes blurred with fatigue, his body drunk passion.

Sara summoned strength to whisper, "Gil."

"Sara, my Sara." He reached down and pulled up covers. Holding her to him, he finally fell into an exhausted sleep.

They woke within minutes of each other; Grissom had tried to extradite his limbs from the tangle of arms and legs, sheets and pillows. And in the process, Sara's eyes flickered open.

In an instant, Grissom saw love in its purest form—her eyes, deep and warm with flashes of gold, seemed to open her soul.

He said, "I am so sorry for all of this, Sara." He kissed her quickly. "I'm sorry for leaving you to deal with everything—my mother, your mother, Hank—everything. It's not the way—it's not the way a husband should treat his wife." Gently, his fingertip traced along her eyebrow. "My parents—my father did not treat my mother as I have behaved toward you—we have been married, but I have not been a husband."

"Oh, Gil…"

He held up his hand. "Let me talk first. I didn't think—I never meant to be gone—to live apart from you but I did. You have taken on more than your share while I have been—I don't know what I've been doing." He sighed and looked away from her eyes before he continued, "But if you will forgive and forget—we both can begin again—as a couple. Sharing. Living together." He turned back to her face. "What do you think?"

Sara rolled over, placed an arm on his chest, and propped her face in her palm. With her free hand, she stroked his face. For several long minutes, silence passed between them as he waited and she visibly struggled for an answer. When he had almost given up, she said:

"I love you more than life, Gil. Desperately, I want to live with you—to love you—to share with you. I want to see the excitement you have for—for what you love." She paused and he smiled. "But I'm afraid—so terribly afraid of what I have to tell you—what I've done."

"Sara…"

She held up her hand. "Let me say this, please. While I have the courage," she said quietly and looked away from him.

He folded his hand over hers. "I know, Sara. I know this—this fear you have comes from—from loneliness, from my own stupidity—staying away too long." His fingers traced along her jaw to her chin and he turned her face to his. "If you must tell me, then do—but know it won't change anything. Not between us."

Sara whispered, "Jim didn't tell you everything."

Grissom pulled her into his arms and cradled her head against his chest. Quietly, he asked, "Was it the man who died? Jim said he was stabbed." He felt her heavy sigh.

"I met him in a bar—he met me, I guess. But even if it was set-up, I should not have—I should not have gone to a bar alone. And then on my birthday, he showed up at the table." Her voice broke with emotion. "I drank wine with him—ate cake with him."

"I should have been with you, Sara."

She sighed again. "Then we sat in his room and drank more wine until I got your message—we—we talked—talked about my job and living in Vegas. It was all so stupid. And then he was killed—it was my fault, Gil. If I had not gone after Basderic—by the end of all of it, I was ready to die. I didn't care any longer." She dropped her head into her hand and sobbed.

Taking her face gently between his hands, Grissom kissed her eyes as she cried. "Sara, you survived. Put this in the past—don't mention it again. Between us, it means nothing."

She wiped her eyes. "It—it's like a bad dream."

"It's over now."

_Epilogue: Four weeks later..._

Sara turned in a slow circle as three people watched and smiled. She should have felt uncomfortable doing this but did not—she had done this in front of the same three on a dozen occasions until they had finally agreed on this one. She laughed quietly at their excitement—a dress—all for a dress; no, she thought, not a dress—for an event.

Sara turned again, faster, causing the skirt to float away from her legs revealing a high cut opening. "I feel like Angelina," she said with a laugh, signing at the same time.

Her mother and mother-in-law laughed; her husband looked puzzled.

The pale icy blue dress was one she would never have selected but with a committee of four, she was overruled. She smoothed the silky fabric and struck a model pose, extending her leg in front of her as the women continued to laugh.

The dress was strapless with a sweetheart neck line, fashioned with pleats and tucks that enhanced yet covered her chest and gathered at a high waistline with a delicate blue flower that gave a touch of sparkle. Bright blue flowers along the hemline and green vines climbing the skirt made it appear she was stepping through a garden.

Betty Grissom opened a velvet covered box and held up a necklace letting the chain drape between her fingers as she handed it to her son; then she signed and indicated he should put it around Sara's neck.

Again, Sara turned so her back was to the two women. She said, "This is a little much, Gil."

He laughed. "She's giving it to you, dear." He fastened the clasp and turned her around.

The delicate chandelier necklace lay against her skin; bezel set diamonds and six teardrop shaped sapphires dangled from a white gold chain. Grissom's fingers touched the center drop of a pear shaped diamond, a similar cut sapphire and a creamy white pearl.

He smiled, carefully kissed her, and said, "You are beautiful," before he stepped away.

Both women smiled, nodded approval, and then clasped hands together in something that resembled a joint congratulatory acknowledgment of success. Or, Sara thought, the gesture of the winner.

"Is everyone ready?" Grissom asked.

Sara smoothed a non-existent wrinkle out of her husband's shirt; while the women had convinced her to wear this dress, they had succeeded only in getting Grissom into a new silk shirt—a beautiful blue that matched his eyes. She kissed him and ran fingers through his wavy hair, saying "This is a big deal—are you sure you are ready?"

They laughed as Laura and Betty preened and brushed and gave approval on their appearance before all four headed out the door.

It was a celebration more than a party—it had been Grissom who made the suggestion. In the beginning, Sara had been reluctant and then he had involved the mothers. Something simple, Sara had proposed. And then Betty had brought out the necklace—Sara's eyes nearly popped out of her head—a gift, she learned, from Betty's grandmother sixty years ago.

"As Gil's wife, you must wear this," she signed.

Sara did not remind her mother-in-law that she had been Gil's wife for several years—but from that point, she knew all hope for a simple gathering of friends had flown out the window.

Grissom managed to guide each woman along a wide hallway and into a beautifully decorated room where final touches were being placed on dining tables. The woman in charge of all of it met them at the door.

"Almost finished!" She announced. "And you look beautiful—absolutely beautiful!"

Sara smiled and let the others talk; she knew this woman would have said the same thing if they had appeared in a brown grocery bags. She looked around, not quite believing that she had been talked into this party—this celebration—but the room was beautiful.

Each table was covered in white, set with sparkling dinnerware, and small bouquets of red roses and blue forget-me-nots with sprigs of ivy and rosemary placed in the center of each table. The late afternoon sun, usually so harsh and blinding bright, was providing just enough light to add a pleasing element to the room.

A band, recommended by Doc Robbins, was warming up in a corner—three young women were harmonizing their voices but as soon as they noticed the arrival of Grissom, the music changed to one of his favorites. Sara was fairly sure it was one from an opera and hoped their playlist provided more variety; she had promised there would be dancing.

Hearing laughter, she turned. The guests were arriving. She smiled as Catherine Willows' laughter rang above the band's music. Behind her, more guests appeared and Sara walked over to join her husband.

It was a splendid, glorious, spectacular party; at least those were the words most often spoken during the hours—and in the following weeks—of the celebration. Because other than being a belated birthday party, no one ever got a clear reason for the event even though several connected the dots, or followed the trail, from the absent Gil Grissom to a very sad Sara Sidle to his return, a smiling Sara and this celebration as a kind of restoration to a marriage some thought lost. Others were delighted to have an invitation to anything. And if Gil Grissom was footing the bill—well, he could afford it.

The eighty guests, most from the lab or law enforcement, a few from the courthouse, a small number from the university, another group of Betty's friends, ate delicious food served in five courses, drank California wine, and whirled in waltzes and lined up for the latest dance crazes until well after midnight. Surprising almost everyone, Grissom and Sara danced—beautifully together—and with every guest at their party.

Jim Brass and Nick Stokes came alone—or together since neither one wanted the entanglement of a date—and, as they drank twelve-year-old single-malt Scotch, decided Gil Grissom was a changed man if this party was an indication of a new direction.

"He's joined up with a group working cold cases," Jim informed Nick. "They get called in when something new is found or an old case rises to the top and locals want fresh eyes."

Nick's forehead wrinkled as he lifted his eyebrows in surprise. "I thought he was staying here."

"Nope, Sara wouldn't hear of it—but this group goes in for a week—no longer than seven days. If they don't find anything new, the case is closed again and they leave—go back home." He smiled and took a sip of his drink.

Nick grinned and lifted his glass in a salute. "It's all good."

**_A/N: Please read! _**_We are taking a break for a while. Not sure when we will return, what the future holds for us. So, take a minute to leave a comment-suggestions, comments, reviews, 'hello'-all appreciated! And in the future, if you are reading our little bits of fanfiction, let us know! You never know where or when the next idea will come from-maybe from you! Thanks to all of you for all the support you've shown over the years...maybe we'll see a happy ending to GSR on CSI!_


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